


you bleed just to know you're alive

by larabfb



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Depression, No Plot/Plotless, Suicidal Thoughts, idfk what this is im sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-03
Updated: 2014-07-03
Packaged: 2018-02-07 06:43:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1888860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larabfb/pseuds/larabfb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He loved the irony of it. He was surrounded by people yet he felt so alone. And, after a while, he really was alone, and the solitude was painful. He was a prisoner of his own thoughts, and the worst part was that he could never escape it.  How do you run away from something that's in your own mind?</p>
            </blockquote>





	you bleed just to know you're alive

**Author's Note:**

> Hiii!  
> So I usually don't write stuff this dark, but I kinda like this one. This is the first fic I've posted. Ever. (!!!) Yay. Finally got the courage to put something up.  
> Trigger warning - depression & implied suicidal ideation/self-injury.  
> Sorry guys. Hopefully my next fic will be happier. And longer.  
> I like to think that this story is in the general time period of Order of the Phoenix/Half Blood Prince.. but really, it can be whenever.  
> Title is from Iris by Sleeping with Sirens.  
> 

He didn't understand why people craved popularity, spent all their birthday candles and shooting stars on wishing for it. It wasn't fun, or exciting, or glorifying. It wasn't desirable. It was a curse. The stares, the whispers, the superficial smiles. They were all he could think of late at night and it almost made him sick. He didn't want the attention, whether it was good or bad. He didn't want it. He wanted to be treated like a human being, not a symbol. It sickened him that people only liked him for what he'd done, not who he really was. He was not a hero. He was a shy teenage boy with hair that wouldn't lay flat and a remarkable proficiency for aerial sports. A boy who only felt happy when he was with his friends. His real friends, that is; not the hoards of people who claimed to be his best mate, when in reality he couldn't even remember their names.

Although, he wasn't so sure. Lately, he couldn't bring himself to do so much as smile, even around the people he loved most. All he felt was numbness. A disconcerting apathy that consumed him. He couldn't bring himself to do much of anything. Most days he didn't even want to breathe, let alone get out of bed and talk and eat and go to class. After a while, he couldn't make himself behave like a normal person. Sleep was his escape. He'd stay in his dormitory for days at a time. Eventually, people stopped questioning it.

It was so hard to be a human being when he hated himself so much.

He wanted to be anyone but himself. He wished he was born into a different family. He wished he wasn't taken in by a conceited family of three who abused him and imprisoned him for nearly a decade. He wished he didn't have his mother's eyes, or his father's hair, or the scar on his forehead. He wished he wasn't perpetually thrown into the limelight wherever he went. He wished people didn't expect so much of him. He just wanted a break from his own life.

He wished to fall asleep and never wake up.

He loved the irony of it. He was surrounded by people yet he felt so alone. And, after a while, he really was alone, and the solitude was painful. He was a prisoner of his own thoughts, and the worst part was that he could never escape it. How do you run away from something that's in your own mind?

He laughed when people made it their life's work to be famous, or whined about how unpopular they were, when his involuntary fame had driven him to insanity. He didn't imagine it would bring him a sort of painful numbness that made him deteriorate, killing a small part of him every day. He hated it more than he had ever hated anything. But at the same time, he craved it. He couldn't imagine life without it. Happiness was foreign. 

He wondered how long it would take for the pain to kill him completely.

Every day, he woke up and looked into the mirror, gazing into the bright green eyes and pale face he'd grown to hate. And every day, he wished he could walk up to the mirror and see someone different. It didn't matter who it was. As longer as it was anyone but him. 

And, at the end of every day, he'd trudge up the stairs to his dormitory, exhausted, and look at his reflection one last time. He'd wish that one day he'd stare into the mirror and it would be empty.


End file.
